


A Wish Your Heart Makes

by nayanroo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cinderella AU, F/M, Female pronouns for Pidge, I am not sorry, Male Cinderella, ulaz is the fairy godfather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 13:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayanroo/pseuds/nayanroo
Summary: Takashi Shirogane is the only son of two very loving parents, and has a golden childhood.  But then his father dies, and when his mother remarries, it is to a cruel man who cares more for his two sons than for his new stepson.  When Shiro's mother dies and he's left with only his stepfather, his life becomes an endless cycle of servitude.  But if you believe, even if just a little, your dreams can come true--all it takes is a hint of magic, and a very determined princess.





	A Wish Your Heart Makes

**Author's Note:**

> So someone reblogged a post talking about a cinderella story with shiro and allura, and my brain ran off with it. This is about 14.5k of self-indulgent trash. Enjoy!
> 
> Note: If you are sensitive to themes of emotional manipulation and abuse, there are probably some things in here that may hit close, esp if your home life was not/is not good. Please be careful; I tried to keep it as friendly as possible, but there's only so much I can do.

_Once, in a kingdom called Altea, there was a boy._

_He grew up surrounded by love, the only child of his smart and handsome father and his wise and beautiful mother.  His name was Takashi Shirogane, and he was a kind and gentle boy, and because of this, there was magic in his life.  The magical folk who watched over the family smiled upon him and granted him many virtues for his respect for all living things._

_But the lives of humans are not the lives of the magic ones, and one day, Shiro’s father fell ill to a wasting sickness.  Despite doing all they could to save him he died, and Shiro and his mother mourned._

_In time, however, the Lady Shirogane thought to her own prospects, and to ensuring that Shiro would be well cared for if anything ought to happen to her.  She traveled often, and on one of her travels met a man who became stepfather to the young lord.  Lord Zarkon was a noble, though not of the same class as Shiro’s mother was, and brought with him to the marriage two sons of his own.  For his mother’s sake, and because he remembered and honored his father, Shiro tried to be kind to them as well.  But Lotor and Sendak were cruel boys, treating the household staff poorly and treating Shiro worse.  Through it all though, Shiro held his head up high.  His mother had always taught him to be better than those who tried to hurt him, and the magic that had pervaded his childhood lingered on in small ways._

_But the world can be cruel, and one year when Shiro’s mother had gone with her husband on a scholarly trip, she was injured.  The wound became infected, and the infection spread, and soon Shiro had lost his mother too._

_Now that the last shield between him and his stepfather was gone, Zarkon and his sons did everything they could to make life for Shiro miserable.  They turned him out of his bedroom and made him sleep with the other servants downstairs; they worked him hard, from dawn until dusk and often late into the night.  They took his books, barred him from attending the parties he was invited to.  After a time the invitations stopped coming for him.  Shiro was all but forgotten._

_Despite it all, his heart remained good and kind.  He always treated everyone he met with respect, and those who met him and had not known him could see the light in his eyes and the smile on his lips despite his poor circumstances._

_The magic folk who had known him, though, were not pleased.  They adored their Shiro, and hated to see one with such a good heart suffer unduly.  So they conspired to find a way to help the one they had always loved._

_The world can be cruel, but it can also be just, and if you believe, then just a hint of magic is all it takes to change your life._

 

*

 

“…iro.  Shiro!”

 

He jolted awake, and Keith – one of the stablehands who doubled as a driver when the Lord wanted the carriage – sat back on his heels. 

 

“Sorry,” Keith said.  “But if you aren’t up soon you won’t have everything ready in time.”

 

“No, no apologies.  I’m up.”  Shiro stretched as best he could in the little nook his bed occupied, then slid out and fished out a less-filthy shirt and trousers, rooting around in his little chest while he stomped into his boots.  “Keith, have you seen—“

 

He turned and Keith was holding out his glove.  Shiro pulled it on over his scarred right hand.  When the Lord Zarkon and his sons had come to their home, and Shiro’s mother had been away, Sendak had spilled boiling water on his right arm.  Rather than have a doctor come to see to the burns, they had decided “not to waste the money” to have it properly treated.  It had healed, and he’d had a salve to rub on the joints so they didn’t become too tight, but the scars tracked up and down the skin.  Shiro hated it, and hid it as best he could.

 

Breakfast was first.  His own meal was usually a few bites of dry toast, something he could eat quickly.  Then it was off on his usual round of chores, culminating just as Lord Zarkon and his sons were coming down to eat.

 

“Why isn’t the fire built in here yet?”

 

_Good morning_ , Shiro thought.  He said, “I’m doing it now, sir,” and knelt in front of the fireplace. 

 

“Lazy,” the Lord Zarkon muttered.  “Lotor!  Sendak!  If you aren’t down for breakfast in five minutes…”

 

Shiro tuned his stepfather out and built the fire up, working quickly so he could be out of the room before his stepbrothers came down.  Lotor and Sendak were particularly cruel in the mornings, and while he could endure it as he endured everything, he didn’t want to _have_ to.

 

“What are _you_ still doing here?”

 

Shiro closed his eyes and counted back from five.  Not fast enough this morning, it seemed.  “It’s chilly this morning, sir,” he said, not turning around to look Sendak in the eye.  “I’m making sure the fire won’t burn out in the middle of breakfast.”

 

“Hurry up.  I can’t eat, looking at your face.”

 

Shiro bit his lip but bent his head, watching as the flames from the long match caught, and in a few minutes, the wood was crackling merrily and Lotor and Zarkon had joined Sendak at the table.

 

“We will have company tonight, boy,” Zarkon said, not looking up from his correspondence.  “I’ll expect the table to be ready by four-thirty and you to be out of sight by five.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Make sure that cook gets every course perfect.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And do something about your hands and face.  I won’t have cinder smudges all over this house because of your filthy hands.”

 

Shiro kept his face as neutral as possible as he stood and bowed.  “Yes, sir.”

 

“What are you still doing here?  Get to work!”

 

It could have been worse, he supposed; he’d heard of servants killed for switching the order of forks in a place setting.  He shouldn’t have been a servant at all – legally, the titles his mother and father had held had passed to him when he’d reached the age of majority – but nobody had cared enough to see that he held them, and Zarkon certainly wasn’t going to elevate his stepson over his blood sons.  But Shiro had a place to sleep and food to eat, however meager both things were.  He was alive.  It could be worse.

 

“Hello, Pidge,” he called out when he’d finished cleaning after breakfast and gone out to the stone barn.  “How’s it going?”

 

Pidge was an orphan, like him.  Her father had died and her brother worked far from home, and so she took odd jobs to make money.  While she didn’t get the brunt of Zarkon’s mistreatment – something Shiro and the others worked hard to shield her from – she definitely wasn’t making full use of her incredible mind tending livestock.  Luckily none of his stepfamily ever came out to the barn, so Shiro looked the other way whenever he caught her tinkering on some new invention.

 

“I think I’ve almost got it,” she said, leaning back from the contraption of metal and pipes.

 

“What’s it supposed to do again?”

 

“If I can get it to work, it’ll not only heat up water, it’ll store and pump it up to bathrooms when it’s needed.”

 

“That’s amazing, Pidge.”  Shiro leaned in as she explained how it worked.  “It’ll make things a lot easier around here.”

 

“Exactly.”  Pidge nudged him.  “How were they this morning?”

 

“No worse than usual.  Oh—hey, Lance?  Can you make sure that you have the coach and my horse ready for tomorrow?  We’re going into town.”

 

Lance, the stablehand, stuck his head out of where he was mucking out the stall of one of the coach horses.  “Sure thing, boss,” he said with a jaunty wave.

 

“Thanks.  Make yourselves scarce after five tonight, okay?  Lord Zarkon’s having guests.”

 

The three of them shared a look; to be seen by any guest of the house was enough to warrant a beating.  It had been how Shiro ended up with the scar across his nose; early on, right after his mother had passed, he’d assumed that he was still welcome at social events.  He’d learned better since then.

 

The day passed quickly, full of normal tasks and preparation for the night’s activities.  Shiro went and told Hunk his cooking was brilliant as ever, rounded up Keith and Lance at four to help with setting the table, and got everyone (except Hunk) downstairs by quarter to five.  Hunk had apparently managed to sneak four plates of food downstairs at some point in the afternoon, and they enjoyed a dinner that was much better than their usual fare of hard bread and cheese; for once, when Shiro laid down in bed that night, his stomach was full.  Reaching under his mattress, he pulled out a pair of small framed paintings, holding them up.  One his mother, her smile brilliant as the sun, and the other his father, with kind eyes and a gentle, soft expression.

 

_It could be worse_ , he thought, scarred fingertips brushing the painted canvas.  _I’m alive, I’m still in the house you left for me.  I’ll be all right, eventually._

 

*

 

“If there’s nothing else, my lords?”  Crown Princess Allura began to rise, but none of the lords around the table did.  Nettled at the breach of protocol, she sat back down.  “Someone else has something to say, it seems.”

 

“Your Royal Highness,” Grand Duke Coran said slowly, and the fact that he’d been the one delegated to tell her meant that the news was surely something terrible; Coran had helped raise her, after her mother had died, and everyone knew Allura trusted him almost as much as she trusted her own blood father.  “There is a matter that we must address.”

 

“Of course.  Proceed, Grand Duke.”

 

Coran cleared his throat.  “There is the matter of your marriage.”

 

“That… is certainly something to be discussed, considering I am not even betrothed to anyone.  What of it?”

 

“You are nearly at your age of majority, and while your father the king has not indicated he will step down, and while he is in perfect health… it has been discussed that your current state is of concern to certain members of the peerage and this council.”

 

Allura clasped her hands in her lap, hoping nobody saw that they were white-knuckled.  She gave Coran her sweetest smile.  “Oh?  What _state_ is that, precisely, Grand Duke?”

 

Coran hated being so under her scrutiny, she knew – his eyes darted around the table and apology was clear on his face.  “Your current unmarried, unattached state.  I am sorry, Princess, but it’s in the rules of your house.”

 

“That I must be wed before I turn twenty-one?”

 

“That you must be wed before you assume the throne.”

 

“Well, then, who knows when that will be – certainly not any time soon—“

 

“No, and may King Alfor reign for many more years, but it’s a matter of ensuring that the throne is secure and should there be some accident, there will be no delay in you being able to take up the crown.”

 

“I… I see the logic of it, but I do not think it’s a very pressing matter—“

 

“Surely not, but Your Highness, it has been… discussed… amongst us that perhaps the upcoming ball in your honor might also serve as a way to find a proper suitor, a prince who can put the concerns of _some_ ,” and this time Coran’s look was directed at some individuals at the other end of the table, who squirmed, “To rest.”

 

“You can certainly invite them,” Allura said.  “But I do not have to entertain the notion of marriage until I am ready.  My father surely will not allow me to be… be… _strong-armed_ into it.”

 

“Your Highness,” and Allura paused, halfway out of her seat.  “Your Highness, your father thinks it may be a good idea to at least _look_.”

 

That was what stuck with her as she finished the council meeting and dismissed the rest, with a long and lingering glare at Coran.  He was hurt by her attitude, but at the moment Allura found it difficult to acknowledge her guilt about how she’d behaved toward him.  She strode through the halls toward her father’s study, her silver-white hair flying out behind her and servants scattering out of her way.

 

“Father,” she announced, striding into the book-lined and airy room her father did most of his work from.  “The council has decreed I am to choose a suitor at the upcoming royal ball, and they have said— _Coran_ has said—that you agree!”

 

She froze when Alfor put down his pen and sighed, running a hand through his short beard.  That was not the look of a father angry that his daughter was being manipulated; that was the look of someone who had been found out.  The palace was a hive of activity, but for Allura, all that noise had faded away, replaced by an ever-growing buzz and the overwhelming urge to vomit.

 

“I’m expected to go through with it.”

 

King Alfor, ruler of the Kingdom of Altea and her father, sighed.  “I know this is not what you wanted to hear,” he began, but Allura rose from the table and began to pace and he quieted.

 

“Why was I not told of this before?”

 

“Well, I had hoped to make a suitable match for you long ago, but... well, to be frank, nobody thus far has impressed _me,_ so they’re even less likely to impress _you_.”  Alfor watched her from behind his desk, piled high with correspondence and reports on the kingdom.  “I’m inviting all eligible sons from our kingdom, but Allura… I’ve been urged to tell you to try and choose one of the visiting princes.  Our kingdom needs alliances.”

 

“I fail to see how marriage will make me a better queen in the _first_ place.”

 

“It won’t.  You would be great regardless of your marital status, daughter mine, and I would prefer you to do what felt right for you.  But it’s been the law of our house since its inception, and I cannot let it slip just because I feel my daughter doesn’t deserve to be hobbled by tradition.”

 

“Why _not?_ ” Allura crossed her arms.  The buzzing in her head was louder.  “If you think the law no longer serves its purpose, _change_ it.”

 

“It’s not that simple…”

 

“It never is.”

 

“Allura…”  Alfor rose, putting his hands on her shoulders.  “You will be a great and wise queen, and I have taught you nearly everything I know of statecraft.  But there are times you must bend a little so that what you love does not break.”

 

Those words echoed around Allura’s mind the rest of the morning.  She picked at her lunch, neglected her studies, and finally gave up.  When her horse was saddled, she headed for one of her favorite riding trails but veered off, letting Pod have his head and losing herself in thoughts of being married to some third son with bad teeth and a habit of eating his own toenails.  She knew most of the first and second sons of the neighboring kingdoms; a first son would never be allowed to marry the heir to another throne, and many second sons were kept close just in case.  She convinced herself that the tears in her eyes were just from the speed Pod was going, and pushed him onward.

 

The sun had begun to tip toward the western horizon when she realized she was quite a bit farther from home than intended.  Pulling up atop a grassy hill, Allura twisted in her saddle, trying to get an idea where she was.  It was movement that caught her eye, though; a horse and rider, galloping headlong across the meadow.  The horse had no saddle and only a plain bridle; its black mane flew back in the wind of its passing, obscuring the rider’s face.

 

_They could be in trouble_ , Allura thought, and heeled Pod after them, into the forest.

 

*

 

“I only mean to say, Shiro, that if he wants to have weekly dinner parties he might want to spend more on good food.  Last week we were fine, but if he really _does_ want to have another tomorrow night, our stores are low.”

 

“I’ll see if he’ll let us go into town so you can get what you need, Hunk.”

 

They were finishing up the dishes from breakfast that morning; Zarkon had announced yesterday that he intended to have more guests over, intending to _bring some influential people to this little hole_ , and Hunk had thrown up his hands and begun complaining that if he didn’t get what he needed it wouldn’t at all be up to his standards.  Shiro was sympathetic – Hunk worked long hours those days, and generally even Shiro was allowed to get to bed early and wash up the next day so his appearance didn’t upset the guests – but when their cook got going, it was difficult to stop him.

 

“Thanks, Shiro.  You know you don’t deserve to be here, right?”

 

“I’m all right,” he said, the reaction automatic.  “I’ll talk to the master about it.”

 

Shiro let his mind wander as he chopped wood, though, the sun hot on his back and sweat pouring down his face.  He _was_ fine, he told himself.  Fed and clothed and sheltered.  There were people in town who couldn’t say the same.

 

The sound of hooves on the road outside made him put down his axe.  It was the mail, and he quickly pulled his shirt over his head, heading out to meet the mailmain’s coach at the entry gate.

 

“Good afternoon, Master Shiro,” the mailman said.  “All right?”

 

“Yes, I am.  What do you have today?”

 

There were the usual collection of letters addressed to Lord Zarkon, a few that must have been the regular social invitations for Lotor and Sendak.  And amongst them, a parchment envelope addressed to _Lord Zarkon and Sons, and Lord Takashi Shirogane_.

 

He stared at this one.  It had been so long since anyone had even remembered he’d existed that he’d thought his whole house forgotten.  But here was a letter – with the royal seal embossed in gold wax on the back flap – and his name was on it.

 

Something in his chest constricted, his fingers brushing the seal.  Surely, if it was addressed to him, it was within his right to open it… but he shook his head, shuffling the letter into the stack.  It was probably a mistake; even _if_ anyone remembered him, they couldn’t have meant to invite someone who had fallen so far.

 

“The mail, sir,” he said when he had gone inside and cleaned up a little, made sure his glove on his right hand hid his skin.  His stepfather’s lip curled anytime he was made to look at Shiro’s skin; the facial scar and the lock of white hair growing from another scar at Shiro’s hairline were bad enough.  He set the mail down on the table and made himself inconspicuous, wanting to know what Lord Zarkon’s reaction was to Shiro’s inclusion.

 

“Father,” Lotor said, staring right at Shiro as he worked to clear the table.  “Father, Shiro has wood chips in his hair.”

 

“I was chopping wood,” Shiro replied.  “I must not have gotten all of them when I combed it.”

 

“I’m surprised you know what a comb _is_.”

 

Shiro drew in a breath, held it, let it out.  “I’m to make myself presentable when in the company of my betters,” he said carefully.

 

“Well, at least something has sunk into your skull,” Lord Zarkon muttered.  “But if I see you so disheveled again, you’ll be turned out of the house.”

 

It was an empty threat and both of them knew it, but Lotor gave Shiro a superior look just the same.  He had to use the short time he was in the kitchen delivering dirty dishes to compose himself again—and quickly run his fingers through his hair, trying to dislodge any wood chips.

On his way out Shiro caught his reflection in the back of a copper pan and hesitated.  Rather than the face he remembered ( _mother’s eyes father’s smile_ ) he saw a scarred, grimy face, circles under his eyes, sweat still gleaming on his brow.  He didn’t even really look like himself anymore, and smoothing the lock of white hair back didn’t help. 

A lot of shouting arose from the dining room, and Shiro hurried back out to find Lotor and Sendak had upset one of the small side tables and were now jumping about, and Zarkon had rose, a slip of thick parchment in his hands.

“A royal ball!” he said.  “In accordance with the ancient traditions, a ball for suitors to present themselves to Crown Princess Allura!”

He threw the invitation back down – not realizing Shiro’s head was where the table he’d aimed for was supposed to be – and took his sons by the shoulders.  “One of you may yet turn her head!”

While they talked, Shiro picked up the slip of parchment.  It was fine, thick paper, the words embossed in black and the blue-and-cold crest of the royal family of Altea at the top.  _To Lord Adolphus Zarkon and sons Lotor and Sendak, and to Lord Takashi Shirogane, adopted son…_

 

He turned the invitation over in his hands.  “And I can go?”

 

His stepfather paused, turning away from where he and his own sons were already making plans, deciding outfits.  “What was that, boy?”

 

Despite the sinking feeling in his gut, Shiro pressed on.  “The invitation names me as well.  See?  ‘Sons Lotor, Sendak, and Lord Takashi Shirogane, adopted son, are invited to the… the royal ball… to be held one month hence…’”

 

“Don’t be a fool.”  Zarkon took the invitation and turned away, putting a hand on his blood son’s shoulder.  “I would never bring someone like _you_ to a royal ball.  Not when marriage to the princess herself is at stake.”

 

“He’d frighten her anyway,” Lotor said with a sneer.  “She’d take one look at his ugly face and burst into tears.”

 

“Maybe we _should_ bring him.”  Sendak crossed his arms, smirking.  “Looking upon a monster like him would drive her right into my arms.”

 

“Or mine.”

 

“You’d frighten her too, shut up.”

 

“It’s moot.”  Lord Zarkon glared at Shiro.  “I will not allow him to go.  Now, my sons, we must see about having new outfits made.  It would not do to meet a princess in rags like Shiro’s.”

 

Shiro’s ears rang, and it wasn’t until he was astride his horse and galloping across the hills toward his favorite forest track that he even realized he’d left the house.  He wasn’t supposed to, there were a thousand and one tasks to do before he would be allowed to sleep, but the fresh air on his face felt good, helped him find calm.  Still, he kept Black at a gallop, fingers twisted in the mare’s black mane. 

 

It took him a few minutes before he realized he was being paced by another set of hoofbeats off to the side.  Shiro looked over and saw another rider on a dappled horse – a woman, veiled, sitting sidesaddle in a blue-and-white riding habit keeping pace easily.  She shot a glance at him, and he caught a glimpse of a smirk through the gauzy fabric over her face before she urged her mount on ahead.

 

It was a clear challenge, and one Shiro couldn’t let go unanswered.  He dug his heels into Black’s sides and they shot forward together with Shiro bent low over the mare’s neck.  The anger at his unfair treatment melted away, and he found he was smiling as they raced along, neck and neck.  The track wasn’t an easy one; there were fallen logs, streams to ford, dips and rises.  Black was always game – especially when he hadn’t been able to take her out in a while – but the woman’s horse was obviously well-bred and strong, for it kept up easily, and both their horses were blowing hard by the time they finally reined up beside a slow-moving stream.

 

“You’re a good rider.”

 

Shiro looked over – then immediately looked away.  It was clear this woman, whoever she was, was nobility.  He was wearing trousers, a shirt that had once been white but was now stained with sweat and dirt, and he probably still had wood chips in his hair.  He was in no state to talk to her, or anyone, when his own noble birth felt so far away and long ago that it might well have never existed.  “I’ve had lots of practice,” he replied.  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 

“I’ve had lots of practice.”  The woman pulled back her veil and Shiro couldn’t help looking then, because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.  Even seated he could tell she was tall – something he liked – and her blue eyes were alight, even if they seemed red-rimmed like she’d been crying.  He quickly looked away again when she glanced his way, busying himself sorting out his horse’s reins.  Whoever had made this woman cry was a fool.

 

“Where are you headed?”

 

“Back up to the palace.  I came from there, but… I needed to clear my head.”

 

“I understand.”  Shiro pulled his horse away from the water, not wanting his treasured mare to get sick.  The woman came alongside and they walked their horses back along the track for a time, their knees bumping.

 

“Is everything all right?” he asked finally.

 

“It is now.”  She was staring right ahead, though, her fingers so tight on her reins that her horse tossed its head, unhappy with the tension.  Shiro reached over and took her hands, gently prying her fingers off the reins so they slipped forward a little.  Her horse snorted and relaxed, and he quickly sat back, cheeks burning at his own presumptuousness.  The woman was staring at him with an odd expression on her face.

 

“I… found out I am to be married soon,” she said slowly.  “I do not know to whom, but I despair of having any choice in the matter.”

 

“No choice?  _Really_?”

 

“It’s… I come from a very old family.  In order to take my place at its head, I must be married, and the list of… _acceptable_ candidates is very short, and I care nothing for any of them.”

 

“Then don’t marry any of them.”

 

“The rules…”

 

“Change the rules.”  Shiro looked down at his hands.  “Marriage doesn’t always go well.  It’s better to care about the person you marry, really _know_ them.  This is the person you will be spending a lot of time with, so… if you don’t love them or even really like them, you’ll be miserable.  And you don’t deserve to be miserable, my lady.”

 

“Sometimes we must bend so that the things we love do not break.”  The woman seemed happier though, and smiled at him.  Shiro felt his heart stutter.  “But you’re right.  How can I be expected to be a good leader if my partner is not someone I care for?”

 

“Just so.”  

 

“And what about you?  Nobody rides headlong like that without having something to run away from.”

 

_I’m all right_ was what he almost said, but something told him lying to her wasn’t the way to go.  “My stepfather,” he said quietly.  The woman nodded, seeming to understand without him having to say anything.

 

“Does he treat you well?”  She eyed him as they rode along, and Shiro’s cheeks burned with shame.  Her eyes didn’t hold pity, though, only a sort of irritation, like seeing someone so mistreated upset her.  “It would seem not.”

 

“He treats me well enough.  I’m fed and have a place to live.  It could be worse.”

 

“But it could be better.”  She shook her head.  “It _should_ be better.  What’s your name?  I’ll see that your stepfather’s taken to task; he can’t possibly disobey a royal command.”

 

Shiro was pretty certain that if anyone could it would be his stepfather, but he didn’t say that.  “It’ll be all right.  He’s… it’s just his nature.  Don’t trouble yourself, I can handle it, it sounds like you have enough on your plate.”  They’d reached a fork in the path and Shiro pulled Black to a stop.  He pointed down one path with his good hand.  “If you go that way, you’ll be back at the palace by nightfall.  It’s the best way, better than following me back out.”

 

“Thank you for the directions, and for listening.  I have so very few people I can trust.”  The woman nudged her horse onward, but paused, looking back over her shoulder.  With the light filtering through the trees, backlighting her silvery hair, she was breathtaking.  “I still don’t know your name.”

 

He had no idea what motivated him to do it, but instead of _Shiro_ , he said his true name. “Takashi.”

 

“Takashi.”  The way she said it made his heart constrict again.  “Call me Lura.  I hope that I get to see you again.”

 

“I hope I get to see you again too, my lady.”

 

She smiled at him, brilliant and beautiful.  Then she was trotting away, and Shiro gave himself a little shake and made for home.  Whoever Lura was, he’d probably never see her again.  Best to just let her go.

 

Later that night, though, he snuck up to the attic and went through trunks and crates until he found some of his father’s old clothes.  His mother had been fond of taking her husband to parties – showing off how handsome he was, she’d said with a little twinkle in her eye – and while they weren’t the latest fashion and fit a little snugly across his shoulders, Shiro thought he looked fine in a coat so deep blue that it looked black, white trousers, and a pair of old black boots he found.  If Lura was at the palace surely she’d be at the royal ball, and he’d get to see her again.

 

That thought buoyed him, and he took the clothes and boots back downstairs and hid them under his bed.  For the first time, he looked forward to something past tomorrow.

 

*

 

With a disgusted look, Allura set the portrait of another prince down in the reject pile without even reading the letter that had accompanied the acceptance of invitation to the ball.  What had his name been?  It didn’t matter, someone with a jaw that square couldn’t be anyone she wanted to spend more than five minutes with.

 

Watching her, King Alfor set his teacup down in its saucer.  “You cannot reject all of them, I’m afraid,” he said delicately.  “Surely nobody deserves a frown like that one, either.”

 

In response she slid the portrait across the table to him, and giggled when his face went incredibly blank. 

 

“Perhaps you can reject that one.” 

 

“They’re all so _tedious_ , Father.”  Allura sighed, looking at the piles of paper-wrapped portraits and tokens of affection that littered the table in her study.  “Not a single one has managed to hold my attention through a single sentence.”

 

“Could it be that your attention has wandered elsewhere?”    Allura shot her father a look, and he shrugged.  “I’m only asking.  You’ve been more distracted than usual as of late, and I think it may have something to do with a young man and a horseback ride and a forest.”

 

Thinking of Takashi made her stomach flip, and Allura let her mind wander back to him.  He’d been so sad, but every time he’d looked at her his eyes had lit up and he’d _smiled_.  He was so handsome when he smiled, she thought; it took all the shadow from him.  Some of her handmaidens had made noises of dismay when she’d described the scar on his face, but she thought it made him look interesting.  Her Takashi had led an interesting life.  Surely more so than—Allura glanced at one of the packages she had yet to find the energy to unwrap—Prince Vorlap of the Arusian Hills.

 

“Allura.  _Allura_.”

 

She came back to herself and sighed, putting her chin in her palm.  “I’m sorry, Father.  But how am I to find any of _these_ —“ she made a broad gesture encompassing all the proposals “—more engaging than he is?  He _listened_ to me.  He didn’t know me, but he cared enough to listen and want to make me feel better.”

 

“Surely I listen to you when you’re troubled!”

 

“You do, but… he didn’t have to do it.  He did anyway.”  Allura leaned forward.  “He’s being ill-treated, Father.  I have to find him again, if only to put a stop to it.”

 

“I know you feel you must—“

 

“I _know_ I must.  What is the point of being able to make these changes if we do not do it when it matters?”

 

Alfor paused, a smile slowly coming to his face.  “Just so,” he agreed.  “Very well.  If this man of yours comes to the ball tomorrow evening, I will personally look into his living situation.  _If_ ,” and he held up a finger, “You at least give _one_ of these princes so much as the time of day.”

 

“A fair trade.”

 

Allura went to her little garden later on, as the sun was setting upon the ocean.  She’d searched the rolls of the peerage at court for any mention of a _Takashi_ , and hadn’t turned up anything recent.  Whoever her Takashi was, he hadn’t been to court, which meant more likely than not that he wasn’t a noble.  Still, the rule of the house was only that she had to be wed, not that she had to be wed to a royal or even anyone of the nobility.  With the considerate way he’d treated her, though, Takashi had to be well-bred.

 

Kicking off her slippers, Allura let her feet dangle in the water of the pond.  She’d had her last fitting today, had inspected the ballroom with Coran to ensure it was up to their exacting standards.  The palace was full of visiting royalty, and all the inns were full of the other guests, and tomorrow she would be expected to dance with at least the most promising suitors among them.  All she wanted, though, was to see her Takashi smile.

 

How was it, she wondered, that one meeting could occupy her mind so fully?  How was it that he already ran so deep in her heart?  Why, when she had no idea if he felt the same?

 

_Remember how he looked at you, though_ , Allura thought, and smiled at the memory.  _Nobody looks at someone else like that, their heart in their eyes, without feeling something._

She would find him tomorrow, if he came.  She would find him, and not let go.

 

*

 

Alfor watched his daughter walk through the garden and disappear through a little gate, nearly hidden by ivy.  That spot had been a favorite of his wife’s, and more often than not after she’d passed he could find Allura there too, sitting by the pond or reading a book up in one of the trees.  As she’d grown older at least she’d stopped climbing them, but it was still her refuge.

 

“You asked for my, Your Majesty?”

 

“Grand Duke.”  Alfor turned, casting an eye over the mess of portraits and letters on the table.  “It seems none of the prospects we found have turned my daughter’s head from this mystery man she encountered in the forest.”

 

“None of them?  None at all?”  Coran sighed, but there was a bit of a smile on his face.  “She _is_ quite willful.”

 

“I can’t imagine where she got it.”

 

“Nor can I, Your Majesty.  Certainly neither of her parents.”

 

If it were anyone else Alfor would probably not have tolerated it, but Coran had been his own childhood friend, and he’d come to care for Allura like she was his own daughter.  “Certainly not.  But I worry… I worry she will be so fixated on this fellow that she puts aside her duty.”

 

“With all due respect to both of you, my king… Allura knows her duty too well.  I think if you told her to set this Takashi aside and marry someone of our choosing, she would.  She would be unhappy, but she would do it to please you.”

 

“I don’t want my daughter unhappy, Coran.  The kingdom itself isn’t worth seeing her light dimmed.”  Alfor ran a hand over his face.  “I’m just concerned for her heart.”

 

“You’re her father.  If I had children of my own, I’d feel the same.  If he shows up, I’ll have you told immediately.”

 

“Thank you, Coran.”

 

Alfor turned back to the window.  The harbor was full of the sails of ships, each one flying a flag of a different kingdom.  He wondered if perhaps he’d invited them all here in vain when his daughter’s heart already belonged to another.

 

*

 

The day of the ball came, and the house was in an uproar.  Shiro despaired of ever getting time to get into his own outfit; while Pidge had finally installed her contraption and hot water was now being piped into the bathrooms, he still had to attend his stepbrothers as they washed and make sure their outfits were clean and pressed and run out to the barn and make sure that Keith and Lance weren’t fighting rather than getting the carriage prepared and that their livery was still pristine.  Finally, as the afternoon light was beginning to turn into the gold of evening, he was able to wash hastily and pull on his father’s clothes.  They still smelled of mothballs despite that he’d managed to sneak them through a wash, but he didn’t mind.

 

Hunk helped him, and when Shiro was ready, his friend smiled.  “You look great, boss,” he said.  “Who knows?  Maybe _you’ll_ get to dance with the princess.  You deserve it more than either of _them_.”

 

“Shh.”  He looked in the old, tarnished mirror Keith had snuck down from the attic one last time.  He was clean, really _clean_ for the first time in years, and despite the scar on his face and the white hair, he thought he looked pretty good.  He hadn’t been able to find any other gloves that fit him so his regular one would have to do, but really, Shiro didn’t plan on dancing unless Lura was there.  Nobody would have to touch his old, grimy glove, and either way it was better than anyone seeing how scarred his arm and hand were.

 

“Go on, before they leave,” Hunk urged, and followed Shiro up the creaky wooden steps to the main level of the manor.

 

The carriage was just being pulled up as he emerged, and for a moment neither Lord Zarkon nor his sons noticed Shiro standing there.  Then Sendak turned and froze, looking at him.

 

“What are you _wearing?_ ” he asked, incredulous.  Shiro smoothed his palms over his trousers, convinced himself this wasn’t a bad idea, and stepped forward.

 

“I’m ready to go,” he said.  “I—these are my father’s things.  I didn’t get anything new made.  I just want to go to the ball, I won’t be in the way, you don’t even have to talk to me.  I just want to see my friend.”

 

Zarkon was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.  “I thought I made myself clear when the invitation arrived,” he said.  “You are an embarrassment to my sons.  I won’t have us seen arriving with you.”

 

“I can ride separate—“

 

“Everyone will _know_.  It would ruin our prospects to be seen with someone wearing these,” he ran a finger over the lapel of Shiro’s coat, “Rags.”

 

“They’re not _rags_ , I—“

 

“They are,” Lotor said, coming up beside his father.  “They’re quite out of fashion and so old they’re—“  he gripped the sleeve and yanked, tearing the shoulder, “—falling apart.”

 

Suddenly all three had their hands on him, yanking seams apart, tearing at the lace of his dress shirt, and by the time they stepped back, it was all in tatters.  Shiro tried to count back from five, then tried again from ten.  It wasn’t working, he didn’t feel calm, he felt anger—but looking at them, smirking at him, the anger cooled quickly into a kind of deep-seated despair he’d tried to convince himself wasn’t really there.

 

“ _Why_?” he whispered.  “What would it matter?”

 

Zarkon sent his sons out the door, lingering behind at Shiro with a nasty expression on his face.  “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly.  “I just don’t want you to go.”

 

And with that they were gone, the door was shut and locked, and Shiro stood in the entryway until he heard the carriage leave the gravel courtyard for the main road.

 

One by one, his friends came out of hiding; Hunk had taken refuge in the kitchen, and Lance and Keith had come up from the servants’ quarters in the basement.  Even Pidge was there, all of them clustered around him in a loose circle.

 

“Shiro?”  Keith asked quietly.  “Hey, are you all right?”

 

_I’m all right_ , he wanted to say.  _I’m fine, this is fine, I’m not angry, I’m not upset, I’m not_ —

 

Wordlessly he pushed past all of them and out the front door, running across the manor grounds until he got to a copse of trees with a fountain in their midst.  This had been his father’s preferred spot to paint, long ago, and Shiro fell to his knees beside the fountain, drawing in deep and shuddering breaths. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes squeezed tightly shut.  “I’m sorry, Father, Mother, I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t live under his thumb anymore, I can’t _live_ —I can’t.  I’m sorry.”  And with that, he put his head down on the cool stone and cried for the first time in years, his heart broken in two.

 

How long he knelt there he didn’t know; long enough for his knees to ache and his tears to run dry, but even after he’d calmed his sobs he kept his face buried in his arms.  With his eyes closed, he didn’t see the glimmer in the water at first, a faint hint of purple light that had nothing to do with the newly risen moon or the stars.  Soon it grew too bright though, and Shiro swiped his gloved hand across his face and looked into the fountain—then shot backwards when he saw a face not his own looking back.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” the fountain said.  Shiro stared.

 

_I’ve gone mad,_ he thought.

 

“You’re not mad.” 

 

He jumped again when a jet of purple light shot out of the water and burst, sparkling brightly violet in the growing dark, to reveal a… well, Shiro wasn’t entirely sure he ought to be called a _man,_ though that was the shape he took.  He was taller than any other man and long-limbed, and dressed in a strange tunic of some dark silky fabric that shimmered in the light.  When his feet lit upon the ground, they made no noise at all.

 

“I apologize for the abrupt entrance,” the strange being said.  “But we haven’t got much time, I’m afraid.”

 

“Much time…?”

 

“To get you to the ball—for you shall go, Shiro.  But only if you hurry.”

 

“How—how do you know me?”

 

“I have known you since the day you were born and your parents brought you here, to this very spot, so you could feel the sun on your face for the first time.  I, Ulaz, was here.”

 

“Ulaz…?”

 

“Your parents always honored the magical folk, even if only out of habit.  But we keep our promises, and we owe them a debt for their kindness—and yours, Shiro.  Now come on, we’ve a few things to do and not enough time.”

 

Ulaz swept out of the glade and Shiro followed, still very confused.  “But—I don’t understand.  Why didn’t you stop what was happening to me?”

 

“I was forbidden to.  But sometimes one needs to know the darkness too well before they know the light… ah, yes, you’ll need a mount.”

 

“I was just going to take my Black—“

 

“She’ll do nicely, then.”  Ulaz made a gesture with his hand and the barn door opened, Black trotting through.  Ulaz made a full circuit, then waved his hand again, and a beautiful saddle and bridle manifested, all polished leather and gilt buckles, and a fine saddlecloth in the black-and-silver of his house materialized over her hindquarters.  Shiro caught the reins, his eyes wide. 

 

“I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Only your thanks are required.”  Ulaz was looking at him now.  “And a change of wardrobe.”

 

This time he tapped Shiro hard over the head, and a sensation like warm water trickled over his skin.  Shiro looked down, watching in wonder as his torn clothes were replaced with a fine velvet coat, embroidered at neck and lapels and cuffs with silver thread, and trousers of soft gray suede. 

 

“But I can’t wear this,” he said, shifting in boots that were perfectly fit to his feet and highly polished.  “I’m not a prince.”

 

“Tonight you are.  To suffer and remain kind is something all your leaders ought to know.  Come on, up you get.”

 

Shiro mounted up and took up the reins, Black prancing already, when Ulaz grabbed his right wrist. 

 

“The glove?”

 

“I…”  Shiro looked down at his hand, pulling off the worn leather to reveal the scars.  “I can’t let anyone see it, it’s too… much.”

 

“It’s part of you.  Anyone who doesn’t understand that isn’t worth your time.  But… I think I can do something to help you.” 

 

Ulaz took his hands and that same warm water sensation engulfed his skin again, and when Shiro looked he was wearing the finest pair of gloves he’d ever seen.  The same gray suede as his trousers, and fit perfectly to his hands. 

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.  Ulaz smiled, and Shiro tried to ignore that the teeth he saw were pointed. 

 

“Only one thing is required of you,” he said.  “By the last echo of the last bell at midnight, all this magic will be undone.  You must be back before then, or else out of the gaze of others.  Do you understand?”

 

“I do.” 

 

“Then go, Shiro.  Go to the ball and dance and smile.”

 

Black leaped forward when he dug his heels in, and as he turned down the main road, Shiro felt his heart lighten.  He was going to the ball.

 

*

 

“Now, Allura, I’m not asking you to dance with anyone you don’t want to, but—“

 

“But there will be eligible young men from every noble house and every royal line that has first or second sons to spare, and I should at least try not to alienate _all_ of them tonight.” Allura finished checking that her dress of fine lavender silk was flawless, that her tiara was properly placed.  Looking at herself, she wondered if the mystery rider would be here tonight, and if so, if he’d even recognize her under all this.  She hoped he came.  “I know what I have to do, Father.”

 

King Alfor sighed, coming around to finish checking her over.  “I know it has been a burden on you, and I wish it could be another way.  But if you are to take my place one day, the laws of our house say you must be married.  Still… find someone whom you could love, my dearest daughter.  Find someone who respects you.  If not tonight, then…”

 

Allura took her father’s hands and held them to her heart, then embraced him.  “I’ll keep an open mind,” she said.

 

“That is all I can ask.”

 

*

 

The ball was already in full swing when Shiro rode up, handing Black’s reins off to a liveried servant and taking the marble steps two at a time until he reached the top.

 

He froze there, the light from the entry hall streaming out.  Inside he could hear music, the sound of laughter, and he was afraid, for surely everyone there would be able to see that he was just pretending for the night.  Someone like him didn’t belong here.

 

“Sir?”

 

Shiro looked at the servant, waiting by the door.  At his nod, the door was opened, and he was inside.

 

The palace was full of light, the glow of lamps reflected off a thousand mirrors.  As he walked through the mostly-empty entry hall, Shiro caught sight of himself in one of them and paused, running a hand over the fine silver embroidery on his coat, the soft trousers.  He’d combed his hair back, and the white strands growing from the scar on his forehead caught the golden light.  It reminded him of that woman he’d met in the forest, of Lura, and he smiled.  Maybe she really would be here, and while the princess was doing whatever it was princesses did at balls, he could dance with Lura.  That would be a fine way to pass the evening.

 

The doors to the ballroom opened, and with one last self-conscious pat to his coat, Shiro took a deep breath and went inside.

 

*

 

Allura stood by her father’s throne, looking over the assembly.  Usually the mix of men and women was fairly equal, but… well, given the circumstances she supposed an imbalance was to be expected.

 

“I’ve never seen so many overdressed men in my life,” King Alfor muttered, and Allura snorted into her hand.

 

“I fear for any of them meeting your approval then, Father.”

 

“I’m sure there’s one out there, but you have to cut him from the herd first, daughter mine.”  Her father took her hand and stood, and immediately all eyes went to their balcony, the music quieted, and Allura felt her palms grow clammy.  Together, she and her father made their way to the railing.

 

“I, King Alfor of the Kingdom of Altea, bid you all welcome to this Royal Ball.”  Her father’s voice carried clear and strong across the hall.  One day, Allura thought, all the faces would turn up to hear her speak.  “My daughter, Princess Allura, will now go among you to choose her first dance partner.  Please, enjoy the food and the music, and the dancing will begin when my daughter has made her selection.”

 

The music started up again; her father squeezed her hand and stepped away to speak to Coran, the guests resumed talking.  Allura hesitated, her hands resting on the marble balustrade, and it was then that she saw him enter. 

 

He was in fine clothing – much better suited to the station she’d assumed he had when she met him, from the way he’d spoken and carried himself – his hair combed back and his skin washed clean of grime.  She’d know his face anywhere, though, the mysterious Takashi she’d met in the forest on that day one month ago.  He seemed to be looking for someone, paused on the stairs leading down to the floor, but the minute his eyes lit on her she could see the way recognition dawned on him, along with surprise.

 

Gathering her skirts, Allura made her way down the stairs and across the floor, politely acknowledging those who came up to her but always moving forward.  Something in her heart told her that if she didn’t keep moving, if she let him melt into the crowd, she would regret it forever.  When at last they were face to face, though, Allura found that her mouth was dry and she had no idea what to say.

 

Luckily, it seemed her Takashi was just as tongue-tied.  His lips moved a few times, but no sound came out, and when she extended her hand he took it and bowed over it, kissing the knuckles.  Allura was suddenly very glad she hadn’t worn gloves, because his lips were soft and full, and the place he had kissed burned.

 

“Lura,” he said, smiling as he straightened.  She felt herself smiling wide in return.

 

“Takashi.  I’m glad I get to see you again.”

 

“Me too, Princess.”

 

She realized she was still holding his hand, and used that connection to steady her.  “I would have you dance with me, Takashi.”

 

“Is that a command?”

 

“Do I have to make it one?”

 

“No,” and he shifted the way their hands fit together, their palms lightly resting one on top of the other as the music shifted into a waltz.  “No, you don’t.”

 

Later, Allura would try to recall the steps, but all that she could remember was the way her Takashi’s eyes caught the light and sparkled, the way he couldn’t stop smiling (and the way _she_ couldn’t stop smiling), the warm and solid muscles of his arm under her palm. 

 

(She remembered at one point leaning in and whispering, “They’re all staring at you.”

 

She remembered that he’d given her a smile, softer and gentler than before, and he’d replied, “No, Princess, they’re staring at _you_.  Who’d look at me when there’s someone as beautiful as Princess Allura to look at?”)

 

She didn’t relinquish him for the next dance, or the next.  After that one of the foreign princes prevailed on her for a dance, but as soon as propriety allowed she had collected Takashi again.

 

“You’re monopolizing me,” he said.  Allura liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

 

“A lady’s prerogative, surely.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

That made her feel warm all through, and she stopped, letting the other dancers swirl around them.  “Come with me,” she said, and then she was tugging him off the dance floor and up the steps.  It was reckless what she was doing, but the weight of his palm in her hand and the feeling of rightness in her heart pushed her onward. 

 

“Where are we going?” Takashi asked as she led him through a hall and into an open-air colonnade.

 

“My secret place.”

 

“Uh…”

 

“It’s where I go when I don’t want to be disturbed.”

 

*

 

Alfor watched as his daughter, a smile on her face that he had seen too rarely since her mother passed on, led the strange latecomer out the garden door.  The young man was dressed like a prince, certainly, but he did not know the face, nor the colors of the house.

 

“Coran?” he asked, leaning over as the Grand Duke came to his side.  “Do you know who that man is?”

 

“I’m afraid not, Your Majesty.”  Coran fiddled with one end of his moustache.  “The herald has no invitation for him, I already checked.  Perhaps this is the elusive Takashi?”

 

“Well, he certainly seems to have captured my daughter’s attention.  Look into it, please.”

 

“At once, Your Majesty.”

 

Alfor turned back to the ball, but he wasn’t really seeing it.  He saw instead the broad, glowing smile on Allura’s face as she danced, and he saw the way that the young man looked at his daughter like she was more precious than diamonds, and he thought, _I might as well send everyone else home, because my daughter has made her choice, and I don’t have the heart to stand in her way._

 

*

 

Allura pushed open the small wooden gate and they ducked under the stone archway, emerging into a secluded area of the garden.  Tall evergreens shaded a grassy lawn; in one corner, a waterfall tumbled down boulders into a wide pool.  A stone-paved path wound through it all, a miniature version of the bigger gardens outside.

 

“I come here when there’s too much going on in the palace, or when my father’s advisors are bothering me, or when I just want to be alone with my thoughts,” Allura said softly, tucking her arm through Takashi’s as they walked.  His hand rested on top of hers.  “It was my mother’s favorite place, and she took me here to play a lot when I was young.”

 

“I can see why you’d keep coming back.”  Takashi leaned over, looking into the water at the edge of the pool.  The path continued on in a series of stepping stones, but Allura paused, seeing their heads silhouetted against the stars in the water.  They looked good together, she thought, and her hands tightened on his arm before letting go.  Gathering her skirts in her hands, she hopped onto the first stepping stone.

 

“Princess?”

 

Takashi was watching her quizzically.  Allura threw a smirk back over her shoulder.  “Come catch me,” she said, and hopped out onto the next stone, and the next.  Takashi followed, and Allura picked up her pace, moving nimbly—until her slipper skidded on a patch of mold, and she felt herself falling backwards—

 

\--only to hit a firm chest and have arms wrap around her from behind, steadying her back on her feet.  “Careful,” Takashi murmured in her ear.  Allura could feel his breath on her skin—was it faster than normal?  Hers certainly was, speeding up right along with her heart.  Her fingers slid along his arms, feeling the silky fabric of his coat and the rich silver embroidery at the cuffs… and the muscles underneath the fabric, strong and steady.  His gloves may as well have been skin, they were so closely cut, and she slipped her fingers into the spaces between his.

 

“How gallant you are,” she murmured.  “But we’ve no winner yet in our race.”

 

She pushed off again, leaping across the stones – a little more carefully this time – and she could hear Takashi following her, just a stepping stone behind.  Back on land she spun, her skirts twirling about her ankles and her smile turned up to the stars, giving thanks for the day she’d met him.  On her last spin she ended with her palms on his chest, felt his hands come to rest at her waist.  Their faces were very, very close together.

 

“I win,” she said breathlessly.  By the look of him, Takashi didn’t mind the defeat, and she smiled and took his hands, leading him to one of the carved and polished wooden benches nestled against a backdrop of ferns.

 

“Is everything a competition with you?” he asked.  His voice was low and soft.

 

“It depends on if you’re able to keep up.”  Allura was surprised at how husky her own voice was, but pleased when she saw the way it made his eyes flick down to her lips.  “You’ve done well so far, my Takashi.”

 

“ _Your_ Takashi?”

 

Allura froze; she’d been thinking of him thus all night that she hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud.  “I mean…”

 

“I like it.”

 

Now _she_ was looking at his lips, wondering what they’d feel like against her own.  It was only a matter of an inch; his gloved palm cupped her cheek, and Allura rested her hands on his jaw, feeling the stubble there, the strong and rapid pulse just at the bend.

 

“Then, my Takashi,” she whispered, “I will have use it more often.”

 

She tilted her chin, licked her lips as the clock began to chime for the midnight hour—and felt him shudder and pull away, his eyes wide. 

 

“Takashi?  What is it, what’s—“

 

“I have to go.”  His voice was strangled as he stood and made for the garden gate at a flat-out run.  Stunned, Allura rose, picking up her skirts again and running after him.

 

“Wait!” she cried out, her heart constricting in her chest.  “Wait, Takashi, _pleaseI_ ”

 

He paused just at the entrance into the palace, and she could see his face – sad, afraid, wistful.  “I… thank you, Princess,” he said his voice quick but sincere.  “It was nice to be with you tonight.  Good luck finding your prince.”

 

He seemed to choke on those last words, and had she not seen heartbreak on his face, her own heart might have shattered.  “Takashi!”

 

The ball was still full when she burst back in.  Takashi was already across the floor, taking the stairs up to the entry hall.  Allura set her jaw and took off after him, but was waylaid by a tall, white-haired man in purple and gray.  He grabbed her hands and whirled her off into the dancing couples, his grip tight.  On the landing above the dance floor she could see Takashi backing away from her father, speaking quickly before turning and making for the entrance hall.  Her unwanted partner jerked her through a series of extremely complicated turns that made her head spin, and she glared at him.

 

“My name is Lotor,” he said, grinning at her in a way that made her stomach turn.  She ground her teeth and yanked her hands back, resuming her chase.  But it was too late; by the time she reached the courtyard, all she could see were the hindquarters of his black horse, galloping off down the road away from the palace.

 

“My horse!” she shouted.  “I want him brought _now!_ ”

 

“Princess!”

 

Allura turned as Coran and a detachment of palace guardsmen came running up.  “Don’t try and stop me, Coran!” she snapped.  “I must go after him!  I _will_ go after him!”

 

“I know you want to—“

 

“I’m _going_ to!”  Allura saw Pod being led out of the stables, saddled and antsy from all the activity, and made for the mounting block.  “I have to, Lord Coran, I cannot let him get away—“

 

“I know.” 

 

She stopped, letting her skirts fall to the ground.  Coran was in front of her, his hands up, nonthreatening.  “I want you to find him too,” he said.  “But to go haring off in the middle of the night, alone, in a _ballgown_ , will only get you hurt.  I saw him well enough when he was dancing with you, I know his face.  I’ll find him for you, Princess.”

 

For a moment Allura considered stopping him and going anyway, but the pause had been enough for her mind to start working again.  “You’re—you’re right, of course,” she said.  “Go.  Find my Takashi, Lord Coran.”

 

“I will.” 

 

She watched as the column of guardsmen, led by Coran, galloped out of the courtyard.  _Why did you run?_ She wondered, her hands pressed to her heart.  _Why did you leave me behind?_

 

*

 

Shiro pushed Black as hard as he could.  She was sweaty, blowing hard as she tired, but he could already begin to feel the tingle of magic against his skin as his clothing began to change back to tattered rags.  And behind him, he was beginning to hear shouting – guards, chasing him from the palace.

 

Black whinnied, dodging a merchant coming into the town late with his cart and draft horse, and Shiro felt the reins slip through his hands.  They were sweaty from Black’s neck, and the fine material of his gloves wasn’t helping his grip.  Clamping his legs hard against his horse’s sides, Shiro pulled his gloves off with his teeth.  As he tried to hold them and collect his reins again, he felt one of the gloves slip out of his grasp.  It didn’t matter; he’d never be able to be found from one glove.  It’d get trampled into the ground and forgotten.

 

The clock tower tolled again—how many was that now?  Seven?  Eight?  “Come on, girl, just a little more,” he whispered to Black.  She snorted, and despite her tiredness he felt them pick up a little speed, and turned them off down a forest track that would keep them off the main road and get them back to the manor faster. 

 

Before he moved on though, he pulled Black to a walk, then a stop, and waited until he’d watched the palace patrol gallop by on the main road.  Only after they’d passed did he urge his mare forward again, letting her go slower this time.  Now that he wasn’t being followed, he didn’t have to go faster than he needed to.  His heart was already broken knowing that Lura was actually Princess Allura and he, a destitute son of deceased parents, would never see her again except from afar. 

 

It was better this way, Shiro told himself.  She’d move on, forget him, marry a prince and rule the kingdom.  He’d… well.  He’d do something, surely, and let himself remember the way she’d said _my Takashi_ as a fond and slowly fading memory.

 

Black snorted, shaking her head.  “I’m sorry I pushed you so, Black,” he murmured, patting her damp neck as the last chime tolled and the fine gilt on her tack melted away, leaving him riding bareback.  “I’ll give you extra grain when I’m done rubbing you down, okay?”

 

She snorted again, and he took up two handfuls of her mane, letting them move along the track at her pace.  He could still feel the weight of the Princess against his chest, the way her fingers had fit between his like they were made to be there.  It made his heart ache, but it made him happy too; for a few hours, he had been the reason she’d smiled.  That would have to be enough to stave off the regret that he wouldn’t be there to make her smile ever again.

 

The manor was quiet when he finally finished with Black and slipped back inside, his one glove clutched in his hand.  Trying not to make too much noise, Shiro washed up quickly and made his way down to the basement.  The others were asleep still, and when he slid into bed without waking any of them, he smiled a little.  He’d tell everyone about it in the morning.

 

Until then, he sighed; Allura spun in her private garden every time he closed his eyes and it was torture, but it was the kind of torture he could handle, and when he finally slept, his dreams were full of her smile.

 

*

 

“Princess?”

 

Allura had left the ball early, though by the noise from downstairs she didn’t think it had slowed anyone down at all; the princes had all found local ladies to dance with, and she’d been able to come to one of the sitting rooms, pacing away the hours until Coran returned.

 

“Did you find him?” she asked breathlessly.  But there was no familiar scarred face amongst Coran’s party, and she slumped a little.  “I see you didn’t.”

 

“We tracked him to the edge of the town, Your Highness.  But he gave us the slip somewhere along the way.”  Coran held something out.  “We only found this.”

 

Allura’s breath caught as she took the glove from Coran, caressing it with her fingertips.  It seemed to still hold something of its owner, some essence of her Takashi.  “Thank you, Lord Coran,” she said softly, “For trying.  And for being so patient with me earlier, my conduct was unbecoming.”

 

“It’s all right.  You’re in love.”

 

“Yes,” Allura breathed.  Hearing it given voice made it real, made it tangible.  “Yes, I am in love.”

 

Her father came in then, putting an arm around her shoulders.  “The ball continues,” he said gently.  “Do you want to come back down?”

 

“I… no.  I cannot, Father.”

 

Alfor looked at the glove, then at her, and while Allura waited for him to tell her gently but firmly that she needed to go do her duty, that moment never came.

 

“I understand.”  He wrapped his other arm around her and she was pressed against her father’s chest.  “Go get some rest, Allura.  Tomorrow we’ll begin searching for him.”

 

As she climbed into bed, Allura laid the glove on the nightstand where she could see it.  Some trick of the light made the glove almost shimmer where the moonlight hit it; surely a tailor would recognize their handiwork.  She would take it round to every tailor in the kingdom herself if she had to, slip the glove onto every hand of every young man until she found Takashi and brought him home with her.

 

*

 

Shiro’s good mood hadn’t evaporated by morning, which was good; Zarkon and his sons came downstairs later in the morning, almost to lunchtime, and demanded tea and food.  Shiro brought it all without complaint, hiding his smile.  It wouldn’t be good if they thought he was being flippant or if he was happy when they obviously weren’t. 

 

“I apologize for my behavior last night,” he said, pouring tea for his stepfather.  “It was rude.”

 

“Too right it was,” Zarkon muttered.

 

“You wouldn’t have had a chance anyway,” Sendak added. 

 

“ _Neither_ of us had a chance,” Lotor snapped.  He stabbed for one of his sausages so hard it shot across the table and landed on the floor.  Shiro picked it up. 

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Some stranger came in at the last minute and the princess ignored everyone else but him.”

 

“I bet he’s a sorcerer,” Sendak added.

 

“Don’t be a fool, Sendak, magic is not real.”  Zarkon’s eyes narrowed as he watched Shiro.  “You’re quite chipper, boy.”

 

“I was able to get a lot of work done last night, with the manor so quiet.  It was better that I didn’t go.”  Shiro hid his smile until he got into the kitchen.  Hunk watched him as he washed off the dishes, a gentle smile on his face.  Shiro had told everyone as soon as they’d woken up, and amid the (quiet) whoops, he’d been glad to see it bolstered all of his friends too.  Keith had gone to make sure Black was comfortable, Lance had asked to see the other glove, and Hunk and Pidge had given him hugs and told him they were happy he’d had fun.

 

The next few days passed in the same way, though the ire of Zarkon and his sons faded.  Shiro’s good mood persisted, though; while he knew he wouldn’t see Allura again, he remembered how she’d felt against him while they danced, the way her eyes had sparkled in the garden.  He hoped she found happiness; she was a good person, and deserved someone good for her, even if that person wasn’t him.

 

(Everything would have been fine, he reflected later, if he just hadn’t been caught smiling.)

 

A week after the ball, a messenger in royal livery came trotting into the courtyard.  Shiro was chopping wood again, but at the noise had come round the edge of the house to listen.  Lord Zarkon had gathered his sons, and though he cast a baleful eye upon Shiro, he did not make him leave, nor the other servants who had poked their heads out to see what was going on.  The messenger unrolled a parchment carried in a case on his saddle and began to read.

 

“At the request of Her Royal Highness Allura, Princess of Altea, and by decree of His Majesty King Alfor, the mysterious prince who danced with Her Royal Highness at the ball is to present himself to her with proof of his identity.  Proof being rendered, if he be able and willing, she will accept his suit and marry him forthwith.  It is so decreed.”

 

Shiro realized too late that he was smiling, grinning ear to ear, but he didn’t care.  Not even bothering to go back for his shirt, he raced back inside, nearly breaking his neck on the dark and narrow stairs down to the basement.  He’d stashed the other glove under his mattress and he retrieved it now.  He’d thought he’d never see her again, but now Allura wanted to marry him!  He could be the one to make her smile every day for the rest of their lives, he could get out of this house, away from these people—

 

“What do you think _you’re_ doing?”

 

Shiro froze, glove in hand.  He’d been so excited he hadn’t even heard the door reopen, nor his stepfather’s feet on the stairs.  Now icy terror rippled down his spine.

 

“I’m going to go present myself to the princess,” he said, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt.  “I’m the one she danced with.”

 

Zarkon eyed him, and it seemed to click.  “Just so,” he said.  “You have proof, then.”

 

Shiro clutched the glove tighter.  “I do.  And I know she’ll recognize me.”

 

“Well then,” Zarkon said.  “That just won’t do.”

 

Shiro fought back; he was strong, but Zarkon had not let himself get soft over the years, and dragged Shiro up the stairs to the attic, throwing him to the floor and ripping the glove out of his hands.  Shiro scrambled back up to his feet, teeth bared; he would fight to be free, if it meant he could be with Allura again.  But Zarkon snarled and pushed him back easily.

 

“You will not ruin my plans a second time, _boy_ ,” he hissed.  “You’ll stay up here until I find some way to get one of my sons into that glove.”

 

“You _never_ will!”  Shiro yelled.  “It’ll never fit any of them and you’ll never see one of them on any throne!”

 

“Then I suppose you’ll never leave this room.”

 

Shiro moved as fast as he could, but Zarkon had already shut and bolted the attic door, and no matter how hard he tried, Shiro could not get it to open.  Exhausted, heartsick, he put his back to it and slid down.  Before, he’d been able to keep his spirits up by telling himself at least he was free, at least he could feel the wind on his face.  He’d been able to _survive._ Now…

 

Shiro put his head in his hands.  _How will I survive this?_

 

*

 

_The news went out across the kingdom: eligible men were to present themselves to the Princess Allura, that she might see them and try to fit the glove upon their hand.  Many were turned away on description alone, but those who were admitted to her audience found her cool, almost cold.  She seemed to know on sight alone that they were not the one she searched for, but she would allow them to try on the glove that lay now upon a cushion beside her._

_It was a strange glove, they said; impossibly soft gray suede, with an unusual silvery sheen, the stitches so tiny they were nearly invisible.  It looked like it would fit, and yet the fingers would be too long, or the palm baggy, and they would watch as the Princess shook her head, thanked them for their time, and sent them on their way.  Truly, the glove would never fit anyone but the hand for whom it had been conjured, for it was a magical glove.  It knew its owner and rejected all others._

_Desperate, the Princess took the glove and her retinue and rode out of the palace to the far-flung manors and properties farther out.  Her father had given her leave to follow her heart, and the Princess would not let it be crushed.  But with every property she rode away from, having not found her Takashi, a little bit more of her light dimmed._

_Still, she kept her head up high.  Love, after all, was worth every step she had to walk to find it._

*

 

“This is the last one, Your Highness,” Coran murmured as they rode into the courtyard of the manor house.  “After this, what do we do?”

 

Allura stared straight ahead as a young man with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail took hold of Pod’s bridle and helped her dismount.  In truth, she didn’t know; if Takashi wasn’t here, her heart might truly break.  She didn’t want to think about it.

 

The household had assembled by the time Coran had dismounted too.  He consulted his rolls briefly.  “Adolphus Zarkon, Lord, and sons?  Is this your entire household?”

 

“It is,” the haughty, pale-haired man replied.  “My eldest Lotor, and my youngest, Sendak.”

 

Both sons made their manners, obsequious.  Coran checked the rolls again.  “There is an adopted son listed here,” he said.  “Ta—“

 

“Shiro,” Lord Zarkon is interrupted, “Is away on an errand.  He took after his mother and her adventurous spirit; alas, he has been gone a month.”

 

One of the servants coughed loudly.  Zarkon’s gaze turned icy cold, and the servant – a tan-skinned, dark-haired young man with the bluest eyes Allura had ever seen – immediately went still.

 

“Very well, we’ll proceed without him,” Coran said.  “Inside your parlor, then?”

 

They began with the servants, who all seemed very reluctant to try the glove on.  The stablehand even deliberately shoved his hand in wrong, staring right at her with a dark defiant gaze as he did so.  Allura sat straight-backed in her chair, keeping her expression neutral even as her mind worked hard to figure out the puzzle of this place.  The servants’ behavior was simply too odd for her to stomach as regular, and the missing adopted son…

 

At last it was time for Lord Zarkon’s sons.  Sendak’s hand was much too big, and no matter how hard he shoved, he could barely get the wrist of the glove over his knuckles.  Despite that, he insisted on keeping the glove for far longer than was necessary, even trying to use his teeth to pull it down.

 

“It’ll fit!” he insisted, snarling when his brother tried to take it away.  “My—my hand’s swollen!”

 

“I very much doubt that,” Coran muttered behind her.  Allura pressed her lips together on a smile. 

 

“Pass it to Master Lotor,” she said, using her most royal tone. 

 

Lotor, she worried, might actually be able to wear it; his hand was slender and fine, and while he might not be able to wear it like a second skin as her Takashi had, it might just be good enough for everyone to declare it fit.  Somehow, though the glove seemed to change size.  Rather than being slim it fit him about as well as a potato sack, baggy between the fingers and loose.

 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t fit,” she said, trying to hide the mix of relief and sadness in her voice.  If the glove fit nobody in this household… 

 

“Are there truly no others here who might be able to try it on?”  Coran asked.  His hand had come to rest on the back of the chair—not touching her, but close enough for her to feel its warmth.  She kept herself from reaching up to touch it.  “No other servants, no family…?”

 

“None.”

 

“And you’re certain your adopted son wasn’t at the ball?”

 

“He has no taste for such things.  And as I said, he left before it.”

 

It made no sense, Allura thought.  She tucked the glove in her cloak, close to her heart; it reminded her of Takashi’s warm hand on her face, the sweet way he’d smiled at her on the bench that night, and she liked to keep it close.  What young man, knowing of a ball where he might catch the eye of a princess, would willingly go off on a trip not two weeks before and not return in time?

 

“Something’s not right here,” she murmured to Coran as they made their way across the courtyard.  “They’re hiding something.”

 

“My Lady,” Coran said quietly, “Are you certain?  Or is your heart simply not ready to let go?”

 

She closed her eyes.  It was a compelling argument, that she wanted to find her Takashi so badly that she was willing to concoct intrigue where there was none.  But she’d also been taught to pay attention to the behavior of others, to listen for what wasn’t said just as much as what was, and what she hadn’t heard bothered her.

 

“I’m certain,” she said.  Coran watched her a moment, then nodded slightly. 

 

“I’ll go talk to Lord Zarkon again.”

 

He left, and Allura took Pod’s reins from the stablehand, watching the boy’s face as she did.  His lips were set in a thin line, and there was a high flush of color on his cheeks.  He was… angry, she realized.

 

“Keith, yes?” He nodded, and Allura smiled at him.  “Is everything all right?”

 

“Everything’s fine, Princess Allura.” 

 

She heard the burr of the lie in his voice, and raised an eyebrow.  “It’s treason to lie to your princess,” she told him.  “I can protect you from any repercussions from your employer.”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Keith repeated, but he met her eyes this time, and when he was sure she was looking, tilted his head up toward the roof of the manor.

 

Allura followed his gaze, curious what it was she was supposed to see.  The roof was dark tile, weathered from many winters.  She scanned it, following the dips and rises, her eyes tracking up to the highest room in the tallest tower—

 

With a gasp, Allura dropped Pod’s reins.  “Coran!”  she cried out, picking up her skirts, her riding boots crunching on the graveled courtyard.  “Coran, he’s here!”

 

She pushed between Coran and Zarkon, through the lord’s two useless sons, searching for the staircase that would take her up to where she needed to go.  Grabbing the handrail, she began to climb, her eyes on a door on the topmost landing, plain wood—and locked from the outside, a fact that made her blood boil.

 

“Your Highness!”

 

Zarkon was right on her heels, and grabbed her wrist just as she was almost to the first landing.  Allura rounded on him. 

 

“You will unhand me,” she said coldly.  “I have seen him, Lord Zarkon, I know he’s here.”

 

“He’s _nobody_ ,” Zarkon snapped.  “He wasn’t even supposed to _be_ there!  He’s a filthy orphan and a commoner—“

 

“He’s the man I intend to marry,” Allura interrupted.  She yanked her wrist free, pulling the glove out of its pocket in her cloak.  “And you, fool, will not stand in my way.”

 

The key hung by the door, and Allura rested her hand on it for a moment.  Beyond the door was the man she’d searched for; what if, when he saw her again in the light of day, he decided that he would not want to be a royal consort?  What if his heart had changed?

 

She thought of how he’d looked at her from the window, and she had her answer.

 

 Taking the key, Allura slid it into the lock and pushed open the door.  Another short flight of stairs led her to an attic, cluttered with the flotsam of past lives, and in the middle of it…

 

“Lura,” her Takashi said.  His voice was rough, and he looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten well in days, but his smile was just as she remembered, and her heart leaped with joy.

 

“My Takashi,” she whispered, and held the glove out.

 

He stepped forward, moving to take it with a hand that was horribly scarred but fine-boned and strong.  Suddenly he recoiled, tucking the hand against his chest with a look of fear.

 

“Princess,” he said, “My stepfather was right.  I’m not a prince, not even really a nobleman.  I’m an orphan and I have nothing and I’m… well.”  He let the scarred hand show again.  “I only have myself to give you.  I don’t know if what I am—if _who_ I am—is enough.”

 

Her heart ached for him.  What kind of life had he led, she wondered, to think that he wasn’t enough?  How long had he been told he was worthless?  She reached out, cupping his cheek with a hand, and he leaned into the touch with a soft groan, like her touch was all he needed to survive. 

 

“You are enough,” she whispered.  “Even if this glove doesn’t fit you, I would marry you, Takashi, for my heart is already yours.”

 

She held out the glove again and he took it this time.  It slipped over his scarred hand, fitting him like a second skin, and his smile rivaled the brilliance of the sun.

 

Allura wrapped his gloved hand in both of hers.  “Come home with me,” she whispered, and led him out the door.

 

*

 

The snow outside hadn’t yet picked up; he could see it through the window, light flurries of white flakes swirling through the air.  The fine wool cloak draped across his shoulders was dyed blue, secured with a golden clasp in the shape of a golden lion, the sigil of Allura’s house.  The thing that had him worrying at his appearance more than the cloak, more than the fine coat and trousers and new boots made to his measure, was the thin silver circlet set with a blue stone.  It wasn’t as grand as the one Allura wore now, nor like the one she would wear when she was eventually crowned queen.  That was right, though; Shiro found this one quite enough trouble.

 

“If you keep fussing with it you’ll have to suffer through being done up again,” Allura said, coming up behind him.  Shiro smiled at her reflection in the mirror he’d been using; she was beautiful in her white gown, embroidered in blue and gold.  He might have cried a little when he’d first caught sight of her coming down the aisle to place her hand in his, and hoped that Keith and Lance and the others he’d _convinced_ Lord Zarkon to release for much better work at the palace hadn’t seen it.  Royal consort or no, he’d never hear the end of it if they had.

 

“It feels strange,” he said.  “But a good strange.”

 

Allura took his hands, and he leaned down and kissed her, still amazed that he could just _do_ that now, whenever they wanted, because they were married now, and because Allura deserved to know how well-loved she was every day.  Her eyes stayed closed for a moment after he pulled away, and he smiled and kissed her eyelids too.  She giggled, her blue eyes sparkling with joy.

 

“Well?  Are you ready to meet our people, Takashi?”

 

“I’m ready for anything.”

 

Allura led him through the portrait gallery, where the miniatures of his parents had been turned into huge portraits and waited to be hung.  _I did it, Mother, Father,_ he thought.  _I lived.  With your help and a little bit of magic, I lived._

 

They stepped out onto the balcony and the crowd roared, cheering for their Crown Princess and her consort, the orphan with the scarred face and the bright smile.  And with Alllura’s arm tucked in his, with her encouraging smile, he raised his hand – his right hand, free of its glove – and waved to them.  They cheered for him— _Takashi, Takashi!_

 

He wouldn’t have seen the purple flash had he not been looking right at it.  Across the courtyard, sitting on top of one of the parapets, Ulaz raised a hand.  Shiro smiled, waving to him, and felt the tickle of magic across his skin.


End file.
